


The Secret Passage

by Nina36



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I love Daenerys and I'm trying not to make her the bad guy here, Mentions of past abuse, Parentage Reveal, Sansa takes what she wants, did I say that I love Dany to pieces and it sucks that I think that pol!Jon! is correct?, jon and sansa are in love though, jonsa, s8 headcanons, smut...sort of?, sort of political jon but with a lot of remorse on Jon's part, sort of spoilerish, the heart wants what the heart wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:08:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina36/pseuds/Nina36
Summary: In which Sansa overhears a conversation she wasn't supposed to - and there are consequences, admissions and revelations.





	The Secret Passage

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! For those who are interested I'm still working on my WIP (the jonsa Hollywood au thingy), but I have these ideas for oneshots and I want to post them before season 8 airs and we're jossed (or not).  
> For the record: I love both Daenerys and Sansa - I'm not exactly looking forward to seeing them pitted against each other, but I do think that Jon has been in love with Sansa since season six, at least. I sort of believe in Political!Jon! therefore, while I tried not to paint Daenerys as the bad guy, Jon and Sansa are technically going behind her back in this one.  
> Love wants what love wants, however.  
> Hope you enjoy it!  
> Not betaed and, alas, English is still not my language!

She wasn't supposed to overhear and she had not meant to.

One of the things the Boltons did before she went back to Winterfell was to block all secret passages and interconnected rooms on the premises.

She had never been in them _before._ It was something her siblings loved exploring -- things had changed, however, and she had made sure to have all the passages and galleries freed, first with Jon’s help and, lately, with Arya's. It was something they had made sure Petyr would not know about. Winterfell was their home, after all – and that truth was carved in her bones, now more than ever.

With the threat of the war coming they needed to have safe places where to hide or if things became dire to escape. 

There was a long gallery that led from her chambers (her parents’) to one of the towers.

She had not known Jon, Sam and Bran would be there.

She should have left, giving Jon time and space. She should have left the moment Bran had started talking, his voice cold and emotionless, not a hint of the child he used to be in it.

She hadn't.

_Winter is coming..._

Jon had whispered against her skin that morning, while she was holding him in her arms.

_Solid, alive, strong, home. My home._

Three words, a plea to trust him, to play the game. And if there was something she had become good at was playing the game. Jon knew it – and she had done her duty.

She had thought that there was anything left of her heart to break. She had been wrong.

Lords, but it had cracked something open in her soul to utter those words to Daenerys Targaryen, the dragon queen, who walked toward her sheepishly, like a bride waiting to be made one with her beloved.

_It does not matter!_

She had reminded herself, that morning, before she had done her duty as the Lady of Winterfell.

Baelish had warned her that it would happen and lurking in the shadows, listening to what was being said to Jon was something the late man would have done.

Yet, she had not meant to overhear, to pry, to be made aware of such a revelation without Jon's consent, it just happened.

And if she still believed in any deity she would perhaps think it had been their bidding: they had wanted her to know when Jon did about his parents and who they truly were.

She has been angry, furious, she had felt betrayed, _raw,_ she wasn't prepared for the buzzing in her head, for the way her heart seemed to want to burst out of her chest.

She wasn't prepared for the immense sense of relief she felt, and how the lingering, confusing feelings she had tried so hard to ignore bubbled to the surface.

She let out a shaky breath and closed her eyes.

_He's not my brother. Cersei, Joffrey and Ramsay didn't break me. I'm not a monster._

The relief she felt was short-lived, however; she wasn't prepared, nothing would have ever prepared to see Jon _unravel_ under her eyes.

_I fought and I lost_

Even then, not long after he has told her that he had been _killed_ by his men had he sounded like that; like he was now – and she desperately wanted to do something to help him.

Jon had been her constant, the solid rock in a maelstrom of fear, blood and betrayal.

Jon, however, was just a _boy (it_ didn't feel like that, but they were still so young -- they were not even supposed to bear such weights on their shoulders and scars on their skins),whose life had been a lie.

 _Oh, Father, what have you done?_ She whispered as Jon sent Samwell Tarly and Bran away.

They knew he was going to pieces under their eyes, and Samwell tried to object, but in the end ,they both left.

Elsewhere in Winterfell, Daenerys was unaware of what the man whose hand had taken in hers, that morning, was doing or feeling.

 _She_ was there. Perhaps it was meant to happen that way.

And silent tears were streaming down her face as Jon fell to his knees, grabbing his face in his hands.

Enough!

There were no games to play, no strategies and scenarios she let pay in her head.

She wasn't in King’s Landing, she wasn't in the Vale, she wasn't in the same rooms with the men who had betrayed her family.

She was home and Jon needed her.

 

* * *

 

 

He didn't even hear her, which was a proof in itself of how the truth had hurt Jon, to the core.

“Jon,” She whispered.

She was behind him, in that old room, in their _home,_ and she wanted to reach out to him.

Her brother, half-brother, cousin, friend, _heart._

She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell, she had been beaten, used, defiled, raped, tortured, hunted like an animal, but she still had a heart and it was on his knees, breathing heavily, trying to stifle sobs.

“You heard,” Jon said after a moment, finally acknowledging her presence there.

It was a statement, not a question, not an accusation.

_His body, so solid and real in her arms, the faint smell of the sea in his hair, his heartbeat, that she could feel despite the layers of furs and clothes._

_He was back. He was home.  He was literally playing with fire and she would follow him, that time._

“I didn't mean to. I needed some quiet,” She said.

Jon let out a bitter chuckle. He sounded _broken._

“You are a good liar --  even better than _father!”_

She moved, took another step toward him, feeling in her gut the anger he must be feeling.

She was not afraid of him, however. She feared _for_ him.

And for once politics were not in her mind: she feared for the kind, honourable man who had personally drawn her a warm bath when she went to Castleblack, who gave her his old cloak to keep her warm and made her feel _safe._

“I am not lying,” She said. Jon wasn't looking at her, and she had no idea whether he believed her; she didn’t know what to tell him to make him believe her and she felt like there was no time to try and convince him that she was no lying, not that time.

Jon swallowed, tears still rolling down his eyes, but he finally nodded his head.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

Jon was a proud man, but he was choosing to let her see his tears, his anguish – and it was tearing at her heart to watch him like that.

“Because you can't be alone, right now,” She replied. That, too, was the truth.

Later, she would think that she hadn't spoken about family, about lone wolves dying but the pack surviving. It was not about that. It was about the two of them, that time.

Jon slowly got to his feet; He was furious, it was the sort of anger she had seen once on him, when he almost killed Ramsay with his bare hands.

She didn't move; she was used to danger and violence, but  she still wasn't afraid of him.

“Leave!” He ordered, but it almost came out as a plea.

How could she?

“I won't ask again, Sansa!” Jon growled.

“Good, because I am not leaving you!” She said.

Was it her own voice? She could barely recognise it: it was hoarse because her heart was beating too fast, almost painfully so, in her chest.

It was broken, because she was trying not to cry. She could feel her heart in her throat and it was not due to fear – she was far too familiar with that feeling not to recognise the difference.

What was it, then?

Jon started pacing the room, his hands on his hips, she saw that he was trying to rationalise what he had just been told: they were on the brink of a war (more than one because she didn't believe for one second that Cersei Lannister would keep her word), and they could not forget that, not even for a moment.

“Why?” Jon asked, breaking her train of thoughts.

_Because I love you._

It was the truth, she had spent years, holding up a façade, months, doing her utmost to ignore what she felt for the man in front of her, and she was exhausted.

“You are the Lady of Winterfell -- I gave Daenerys something that wasn't mine to give,” Jon said, not waiting for her answer – or, perhaps, he was pushing her to fight him.

“You are the King, my king, you did what you thought was right!” She countered.

She was still angry about that, but it would have to wait. Jon was more important than that.

Jon let out another bitter chuckle and she saw new tears welling up his eyes.

“What is right, Sansa?” Jon asked, “fucking a woman I didn't truly want to get her armies and her loyalty?”

_A woman I didn’t truly want._

She swallowed. Jon never used profanity in front of her – he tried to be like their – her father. He didn’t know the things she had heard, the things Ramsey had whispered in her ears as he did what he wanted with her body.

It stung, knowing that he had had sex with another woman; it shouldn’t because she had no rights over him, nonetheless it had hurt to look at the two of them together, that morning.

_A woman I didn’t truly want._

“We are at war, you had your reasons.” She said, eventually.

Jon took a step toward her and she forced herself not to flinch and step back. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she could feel his strength, she could feel the raw anger coming out of him and she felt that he was dangerous.

“Did I? You did not answer my question: what is right?”

“Father loved you.”

Jon shook his head and she noticed how he balled his hands into tight fists. Was he holding back? Did he want to shake her by her shoulders and demand an answer? What did he want, exactly? What could she do to fix him?

“That. Is. Not. What. I. Asked.” He hissed.

“Father lied to protect you! With Rhaegar’s children dead, you were the rightful heir to the throne – Twynn Lannister would have you dead, he would have torn the North asunder to have the throne.” She said.

It wasn’t an answer, and she doubted Jon cared about history or the reasons why their – _her_ father had condemned him to a life of deceit.

“Right is what keeps you alive, what keeps our family alive.” She replied eventually.

“Even if it means lying, deceiving and making false oaths?” He asked.

She licked her lips.  

“Yes. I did all of these things to survive. How could I possibly judge you for your actions?”

Jon looked at her, “You had no choice,”

She didn’t. She had thought about everything – she had spent days and nights locked either in her elegant rooms in King’s Landing or in the one in Winterfell where Ramsay kept her during the day and thought about every possible thing she could have done.

It almost broke her. She would not, could not allow Jon to doubt himself and his choices.

“You did what you had to,” She said.

“I didn’t bend the knee. I didn’t –“ Jon trailed.

He started when she grabbed his arm, “I don’t care – “

“You do.” He replied, and his eyes were dark, with tears and fire and heartbreak and she should step back.

She shook her head, “I feared that you were making Father and Rob’s mistakes, I don’t want to lose another brother.”

“I am not your brother, Sansa.” Jon said, there was something in his voice – an edge, a challenge, a plea that she clearly heard.

_His heartbeat – she could feel it even through layers and layers of furs and leather. His scent, always the same: home, and wood and leather. The thin scar on his face, his arms wrapped around her, his breath against her skin. She had not known one could miss someone as if they were missing a limb. Her heart, because she still had one, despite it all, felt too small for a moment, how could it contain how much she loved Jon? How could she wear her courtesy armour without showing the cracks in it?_

_Oh._ She realised blinking her eyes.

Jon was not her brother. Jon was a Stark and a Targaryen and a Snow. He was ice, he was fire – he was a warrior, a survivor, he was gentle and honourable and flawed and her king.

“I don’t want to lose you.” She replied eventually because it was the truth; he had brought her back to life when they had met again, they had fought together to take back their home, he had protected her, smashed his own hands to keep the promise he had made her about Ramsay.

“I fucked my aunt.” Jon said.

He took another step toward her, and she could physically feel the warmth coming out from him. His eyes were dry, now – but the look in them was still haunted.

“You didn’t know.” She said.

“I fucked her – my own aunt, and all I could think was that at least, I would not commit a sin, that bedding a woman I am not in love with was better than –“

Her heart skipped a beat.

Her gut knew – she had known for months; every time they had been alone, every time she had felt his presence in a room, even before she could hear him, every time they had quarrelled or travelled together or spent time in his solar, or talked about Winterfell and what it needed to be done for the war to come.

She had known.

Littlefinger had known.

_A woman I didn’t truly want._

Jon would not finish his sentence; he had sworn he would protect her and that was an oath she was sure he would always try to uphold.

Jon would not take another step, he would not close the distance between them, even if they were already impossibly close and had he been any other man she would have already stepped back.

She could.

She wanted to.

She had stopped believing in the old gods and new. She had stopped believing in many things; she only knew that if she wanted something, she needed to take it for herself.

And she wanted.

“Better than --?” She asked. It was cruel, she was aware of that. And when they got outside that room, the world would be even crueller.

Daenerys Targaryen was in love with Jon – she had two dragons and a large army. Cersei Lannister would _never_ respect the truce, an army of the dead was approaching – and yet, there, in that room, there was the only thing that mattered to her, the only thing worth fighting wars for.

Jon.

“Better than – craving my half sister.” Jon admitted, eventually, looking at her, “after everything she’s been through.”

She swallowed past her suddenly dry throat. Her heart was drumming in her chest, and again she was feeling like it was too small, like it would burst because it could not possibly contain that much love and yearning for one person.

“I fucked my aunt, and I was relieved because I hoped I would stop seeing you and only you when I closed my eyes.”

 Jon let out a tremulous sigh, and frowned, looking at her.

Did he expect her to run away screaming?

Did he expect her to slap him or tell him that he was just like a Lannister or a Targaryen or any of the awful men she had met in her life?

She moved, just one step, feeling his chest against hers, and Jon stood still.

“Jon – I have met monsters in my life, you are not one of them.”

“I wanted to –“

“Me too.” She said, interrupting him, before he could go on, “and I believed either Cersei or Ramsay had broken me. He told me that a part of him would always be in me, and I thought that he was right, after all – because I wasn’t supposed to even _think_ about you that way, but I did.”

She had spoken very quickly, and she was surprised by how easily the truth came out – even the things that she had refused to examine for the past months.

The dreams she had had, in the first days after Jon was crowned, when she had felt happy and safe and she had felt warmth pooling between her legs, right there where Ramsay had hurt her so badly that it had taken her months to be able to stop feeling pain, and the hazy images of dark curls against her skin, full lips kissing hers, calloused hands caress her skin, until she had peaked in her dreams.

The way only her years at King’s Landing had helped her to face Jon after those dreams and to keep her façade intact.

How she had missed him, how every day she had stood in the spot where they had said good-bye and looked – forgetting, for a few brief moments, that songs weren’t real and that she was Sansa Stark and she could not get what she wanted, but still yearning for Jon to come back.

“We were raised as siblings,” Jon said, “It seems it’s in my blood. I cannot escape it.”

“Then it’s in my blood too – maybe _he_ was right after all!” She had never told him about her last conversation with Ramsay, but she didn't need to specify, he  _knew._

“No!” He said, and he touched her, one hand on her shoulder the other on her face, “No! I’m the one –”

Jon Snow was her cousin, he was her king and she wouldn’t be surprised if Daenerys proposed a marriage the following day. They were at war, they needed allies and they would do whatever it took to keep the North and their people safe.

But in that room, that night, they were just Jon and Sansa.

“If you’re a monster, if you are wrong inside so am I, I will not budge on that.”

Jon smiled, it was a real smile that time, “This does not surprise me.”

“Either we are both rotten inside or we are not.” She continued.

“You are not playing fair, Sansa.”

She loved the way he was saying her name; it sounded different, like it had a real meaning – like she was more than a pawn, an object, a stupid girl to use for political gains.

He said her name like it meant _everything_ to him.

She smiled, and she realised how much Jon and she had smiled, even before they took Winterfell back, long after they had stopped reminiscing about their childhood and the few things they had done together while growing up.

“Perhaps,” She said, “but it’s nonetheless true.”

“You are not rotten inside, not to me.”

“You are my king, you are _my_ Jon,”

The truth, laid bare between them, and it felt good – it felt like everything had finally clicked into place.

When he kissed her, it was not a surprise because Jon never forgot her past, even if she felt safe with him. She had been kissed, but never like that – like the world was ending, but they had time to savor the moment; he tasted like tears and ale and the fruits they had eaten that night, he was warm and strong and the flutters she could feel inside were not panic: the men who had hurt her were dead and she was finally, finally burying them for good when she kissed Jon back.

 

* * *

 

 

They were both trembling as the kiss deepened and she vaguely realised that her back was against the wall.

In the dreams she had had, those vague images that she washed away with cold water when she got up from her bed, it was always flashes, and softness and warmth.

The reality was slightly different: there was warmth, of course, and Jon’s lips were soft against her neck, but the wall against her back was cold and hard and they broke out of their kiss giggling because they were trembling too much to even try and undress.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” Joan said, between kisses.

“I won’t, but thank you.” She said.

Proper ladies didn’t do such things, she had been told. Their backs weren’t pressed against walls and their knights didn’t help them to lift up their gowns because they didn’t wear them like armors.

Proper ladies laid down on soft sheets, wearing virginal gowns and gave their virtue to the men chosen for them by their families.

She was Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell – she had no virtue left: her first husband’s family had shattered her childhood, her second husband had taken her maidenhood treating her like she was a whore in a brothel.

Jon would be her first and last lover, of that she was sure, therefore she didn’t care about the place.

It was home – the one they had fought and bled for and they would still do.

She was unprepared when he did not, immediately slammed into her, but kept kissing her, nibbling her earlobe between his teeth, while his fingers teased her core.

He slowed his movements to a halt when he felt her tense and she had to kiss him or she would tell him that she was used to pain and that it was okay and that would send him running.

“I’m fine.” She breathed against his lips and she was, he must feel it, just like she could feel his desire against her stomach because he resumed his teasing and – that was _it_ , what Maergery had told her about experienced men, what she had heard some girls in King’s landing giggling about.

She could feel the same heat of her dreams between her legs, only tenfold.

“Please.” She panted. She had no idea whatsoever what she was pleading for – she only wanted Jon, she wanted _more._

She wanted to touch Jon as he was touching her – she wanted to taste his skin the way he was with her, but her mind had zeroed on the pleasure that was building up in her gut, throbbing between her legs, making her wet (not with blood – and that, alone, made her love Jon more than she thought possible).

He let out a groan when she touched him, and gently pushed her hand away, “I’m not going to last if you touch me –“

She nodded, but she wasn’t sure she understood. What was he waiting for? And then the first wave of pleasure made her open her mouth, no sounds coming out of it, because she was breathless.

“Jon,” She chanted, when she could speak, and he kissed her, again, open mouthed, not anything proper ladies or lords did, but she didn’t care.

She knew he was strong, she had seen how strong he was on the battlefield, when he had taken her in his arms the day they had reunited and she had felt like he was the strongest person in the world and she could finally breathe again.

She wrapped her legs around his hips and he supported her weight with her arms and they locked gazes.

They could still stop. She could go back to her chambers and they would both pretend it had been just a dream.

They had a war to fight – enemies everywhere and if they did that, they would make another powerful enemy, one that was currently living under their roof.

They were both aware of that – she read it clearly in his eyes, and she was sure he could

do the same.

“Sansa,” He breathed.

Yes or no. Betraying a Targaryen with two dragons and a powerful army or go back and pretending.

Duty or love.

She kissed him. She would be his mistress, his whore, his sister, his confidante, his political tool. She would be whatever he needed her to be when they got out of that room.

She was _his._ He was _hers,_ in their ancestral home, where they had been taught honour and songs by Ned Stark and Cathelyn Tully and had been sent into a cruel world which had stripped them all bare and almost destroyed them.

When he entered her, she knew Jon had made his choice too.

She had still expected pain, but it didn’t come – there was only pleasure and the feeling of being connected to Jon in a way she had never been with anyone in her life. She could feel his pulse quicken, just like hers, she could only kiss him and lick the beads of perspiration away from his face.

 Pleasure –  with Ramsay, he had sometimes had fun torturing her with pleasure, until it became pain, until the pain made her scream and scream and he left her trembling, bloody and crying, the initial pleasure long forgotten.

Pleasure was humming beneath her skin, now – and it was different because her heart was definitely bursting with love for Jon and she was coming undone at the seams.

Years of pretending, of wearing masks and pretty dresses to cover her scars and hearing the sounds of her flesh tearing and _feeling_ her blood pouring in her nightmares faded away.

Jon – the bastard son of Winterfell, the Lord Commander, the King in the North, the Lost Prince loved her, and by all the gods, the ones she had forsaken and the ones, that perhaps, had not forsaken them after all, she loved him  back: body and soul.

There was a world, just right outside that room, fraught with dangers, but she had stopped being afraid.

She let go, allowing her body to move of its own volition, matching the rhythm Jon had set and if she let out words of love, of commitment, oaths for the future, she had no idea – all she knew was that Jon matched them, with kisses with touches, with his body and soul.

They were one – and the fight had just begun.

 

* * *

 

Unbeknownst  to both Jon and Sansa, lost in each other's arms, Tyrion Lannister silently closed the door of the room. He hadn't been seen or heard.

He, however, had seen and heard it all. 

There would be time to make new plans, to try and find a way to protect Daenerys and their fight for the throne. He chose to let the two young Starks have their moment of peace. 

War and betrayal and blood could wait until the morning. 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I used the very few spoilers about Winterfell and its secret passages and interconnected rooms and the fact that it was said that there would be a lot of callbacks to the first episode.


End file.
